Born to Die
by IneptWriter
Summary: Athena Sunspeare had an easy life in District 4 but then unfortunate circumstances ripped it all away. She became accustomed to having nothing but control over her body. The 69th Annual Hunger Games changes her life. Rory, her twelve year old fellow tribute, manages to worm his way pass her defences. Athena wants Rory to win. Can she protect him? Or will life screw up her plans.
1. Author note

Hello readers and thank you for opening my story.

I don't own the Hunger Games franchise obviously. The Hunger Games universe and characters were created by Suzanne Collins.

This is not a self-insert, this is a challenge.

Stubbornly and stupidly I accepted this challenge because of my silly pride.

So bear with me.

My criteria was to write about an orphan. (We were watching batman at the time).

I had to choose a book, movie, anime or TV show randomly from a hat. I picked the Hunger Games and because the Hunger Games is written in a first person narrative, I had to write in a first person narrative which has proved to be a bizarre experience for me. (It feels like I am writing a diary entry, I know in third person I write about someone else too but... it was weird talking as someone else in a story instead of writing like an all-seeing goddess about someone's thoughts and feelings).

I am also relatively new to the Hunger Games books and movies. I have read the first Hunger Games book and I have seen the movie but I haven't read or seen the rest. I know that is bad but I like to read the books first so I'll watch Catching Fire after I have read it. (Right now I am reading Dance with Dragons).

The Games the character is in was randomly picked too. (Random number generator between 1 and 73 because I wasn't messing with the Katniss storyline).

The District the character is from was randomly picked the same way, but obviously picked between 1 and 12 not _1 and 73_.

The name of the character was chosen by Lexie. She decided to name my person after a perspective figure and my character has to embody some of the figures... characteristics.

The gender of the character was randomly picked. The age of the character was randomly picked. Hell even the features of the character were randomly picked and influenced by the figure the character is named after.

To make it worse my friend made me make my character embody the traits of her favourite district... no, not District 12, that would have been too easy for me. Instead I had to worry about getting District 11 as the district and having to somehow make my character as strong as a career tribute from District 2. Thanks Lexie.

Volunteer or reaped was chosen by Lexie's coin toss.

Whether the character lives or dies was randomly decided to.

So, this is a challenge and not another self-insert.

Enjoy x


	2. The Reaping

**Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins created the Hunger Games universe and her characters. I do not own the Hunger Games.**

* * *

No twinkling stars or shining moon, only darkness blankets the sky. The club has pocketed all of the light, it is filled with flickering and flashing lights that beam everywhere. It is just another night despite the looming threat of tomorrow. Loud music thuds against the club's walls as if it is trying to escape. The pungent odour of sweat, vomit, smoke, alcohol only grows stronger as more bodies fill the building.

Just another night.

Stand, check IDs, throw out abusive attendees and stand some more.

My fighting skills are kept sharp, my mind is kept sharp and I have a good laugh. The uniform is also a great bonus. The black leather jacket, black cargo pants and black combat boots are more than I could ever wish for.

The uniform has become a second skin for the new person I become at night. Athena Sunspeare, sensational security guard at night and Athena Sunspeare, daughter of a disgraced peacekeeper and lowly orphan during the day. Tonight's frost has a bite and I'm glad it can't sink its teeth through a leather layer.

"I've got these babes," Lorcan informs me. His beady eyes eagerly undress the three young girls that approach us at the door. However, his eyes don't have much to work with; the girls are basically nude with their short skirts and skimpy bra tops.

The girls approach Lorcan. I know all three of them. Sixteen, too young to be here. Laura Clamwell, Izabelle El Mar and Violet Pearle were all in my grade but they won't recognise me. I was the haughty, uppity daughter of a peacekeeper who skipped a grade.

Predators like Lorcan hunt easy prey like these three.

Lorcan ogles their chests and ushers the girls in eagerly. On cue, all of the girls giggle shamelessly and slowly sashay into the club. Many underage girls use the flirtatious charm on Lorcan to enter the club.

A moving figure in black catches my eyes. Declan Dune takes long strides towards us. Women and men huddled outside the club hungrily eye his form like starved creatures. Declan is the exquisite delicacy every club attendee craves.

"You knocking off early sunshine?" Lorcan asks curiously and his eyes stray to my chest. I cross my arms over my chest and grin tightly at him.

"Why? Are you worried you can't handle the rowdy ones without me?" I tease playfully despite wanting to deck him. I always play nice because Lorcan is my boss's brother.

"No, just going to miss the view," Lorcan replies, a sleazy grin spreads across his face and he slowly drags his tongue along his top lip. I clench my teeth together and push my arms against my chest to restrain my fists. The urge to blacken and swell up his eyes until he can't see is excruciatingly strong.

"Hello beautiful," the velvety voice of Declan Dune saves his uncle from my fury. My gaze switches from one disgusting creature to the next. Declan cocks his head to the side and grins lazily at me.

"Hello Declan," I reply in a friendly tone. Really I want to call him Dick-lan.

"Better run home beautiful and get some shut eye before the sun rises. If you can't sleep and you need some help, remember that I'm here," Declan drawls out in a slow, seductive manner. I suppose the desired effect was to leave me mesmerised, instead my instincts are pointing out very move I can use to incapacitate him if he tries anything on me.

I extend my hand and pointedly stare at the palm of my hand. Declan's dad always pays me through him. An employer with an underage security guard has to be cautious.

Declan smirk widens and reveals the white of his teeth. His piercing hazel eyes trail slowly down my body and they take extra care to stare at certain parts for a lengthy amount of time.

Don't hurt him, I chant to myself.

You need the money, I remind myself.

Slowly he retrieves his pocketed hand from his pocket and places the green bills into my hand.

"Thanks," I say swiftly.

I can't leave the place any faster than I do.

Declan is handsome, I'll give him that, but his personality is ugly.

Every other girl falls for his charms. Every other girl lives in her dreams with her perfect husband, their perfect house and their perfect children. I wonder, how many girls have written his surname with their name?

Once I turn eighteen, I just want to buy a boat and sail away. I don't know where, just anywhere but here. I don't want a husband or a family. I want freedom.

I hug my arms together and weave down the network of streets. The streets are mostly dark with the lamps barely blinking any light. The streets are all empty too. The drunken buffoons steer clear of trouble as if they are fearful to tempt fate. Everyone plays nice tonight.

Many are over eighteen and have escaped the odds but yet tonight they still remain fearful. Curtains are drawn tightly together and families are huddled together.

The rest of us wake anxiously for the sun to rise to see if we have tempted fate. I like to think I have been unlucky enough so I won't be chosen. I'm hoping I'm not. I live for the day after my final reaping. The day I will finally be in charge of myself and free.

I'll use a log to float away if I have to. Hopefully I will wash up on a distant beach; golden sand, sunshine, gently rolling waves, squawking seagulls, palm trees and freedom. Bliss.

My breath escapes my lips in wisps of steam and once again I am grateful for the warmth of my work jacket. The woollen lining within the jacket only blesses me more. If only leather jackets grew on trees like leaves because then influenza and pneumonia wouldn't spread like flames through the House. No one will give warmth to the lowly rejects of our district, the numbers they lose in winter are regained later in spring.

I wish I could protect the other children in my home, but in a way I am selfish; once they sniff a whiff of a person you care about, they use them against you.

Once you reach the grimmest street in the grimmest side of the district you find the House. The House is the district's orphanage where children rejected from foster care are placed.

My House, my home and my prison all bundled up into an old factory. Wiry, dry, golden straw surrounds the pathway towards the House. If someone harvested it all we could sell it as hay so they could feed us edible lumps of soup for once.

The old converted factory is four thin, tin walls in the shape of a rectangle. In winter the House is a freezer.

I have to climb the limbs of a willow tree to sneak into my room. Once I slide the window up, I quietly slide myself inside the building.

My room is an old cleaner supply closet which is the size of half a carriage. A hammock bunk bed and a small bedside drawer are the only furniture I have. They don't belong to me. They belong to the Capitol. When you become an orphan nothing belongs to you, not even yourself. Your body becomes property of the Capitol and they can rent it to anyone they like. Unless, like me, you use money to bribe Mrs Shell the House 'Mother'.

The House is a brothel. It's the disgusting truth made more real by looking at the children imprisoned inside of here. All of them are thin and sickly with no spark of childish glee in their eyes. So many filthy men and women taint their innocence until they have none.

The children here are used for money or for payment.

Mrs Shell is a vile, disgusting, portly, bird-nosed, beady eyed beast of a woman. She doesn't see children, she sees money. Mrs Shell is the one behind the grand scheme.

I climb up onto the top hammock and caress the green bills within my pocket. Three quarters for Mrs Shell and the rest for me.

The hammock sways side to side like a boat rocking against the waves. I love the hammocks, they can easily rock you to sleep. The hammocks are better than the wooden slabs they call beds.

On my distant beach, I'll have a hammock.

My eyelids become heavy so I rest them.

My slowing breaths are the only sound I hear in my room. The thin, wooden walls manage to block out the sound of the other children living here. Tonight is especially blissful because their nightly visitors don't come.

No groans, no miserable crying, no wretched wailing and no banging. The children are safe for a night but only because of the danger they face tomorrow.

I used to share my room with other children. Emily House, a girl my age used to share it with me at first. Every child dumped as babies have the surname House.

Her hair used to be long, black springs that used to boing and bounce with every step she took. Her eyes used to shine bright until pneumonia took that light away. Her voice could lift you away and into a different world where things were better and happier. She was my first friend in the House and my best friend. I used to cry myself to dehydration in her arms. Her bony, gaunt frame would shelter me from the harsh reality of House life.

Emily taught me the ins and outs of this place.

Rayna House was next.

Freckles were splattered across both of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose and she also had a long neck. She introduced herself as giraffe to everyone. Her ginger hair was always weaved into two fish plaits with faded, pink ribbons tied at the end.

The ribbons were gifts from her birth mom and every night she would tell me stories about her mum; every story had a different version of what she'd want her mom to be but the mom would always be loving. She was my friend too.

She was thirteen when she died.

One day she left to perform a task for Mrs Shell and she came back unwell.

She desperately beseeched for me to get her help. Foam was frothing from her lips, her porcelain skin was an unhealthy shade of red and she was convulsing on the floor.

"Please," she kept begging. I screamed and cried for Mrs Shell.

Mrs Shell came tumbling into the room. I thought she'd save her. Mrs Shell banged her head against the wall until Giraffe's head sagged limply. I screamed my throat was raw.

My voice has been raspy since.

I lost other friends after them too. So many. Three years within these walls and I have witnessed too many deaths to count. Only Emily and Giraffe have really imprinted on me.

I couldn't bear it for long. I tried not to get attached to them. Every time I did. There is only so much shredding a tattered person could take. Mrs Shell is happy with the pay I give her in order to have a room to myself.

This world, this life, this reality likes to rip everything you love away from you. I've learned it is better to have nothing. Once I'm eighteen and free of this place, I'll have my own paradise somewhere away from here. I'll forget the screams and cries of miserable, exploited children.

I was lucky because of my dad. I was able to teach martial arts for a living. I met my boss through my lessons and I got my security work as well. The greenery I've collected over the years has managed to save me from Mrs Shell's tasks.

She still tries to lure me in with false promises and fake declarations of motherly love. Stupid woman, I still remember her motherly love depriving Giraffe of life.

Life with my dad and brother was nothing like this; warm, soft beds, big, tasty meals, curling up by the fireplace, playing on the backyard swing, my school friends, playing with Faolan, bedtime stories from my dad and everything good.

I never knew about the darkness within our district.

I shift to my side in the hammock and pull my patchy quilt over my body for more warmth. These thoughts won't help me sleep so I decide to let my sleepiness wash them away. The hammock begins to sway side to side again and slowly, very slowly I drift to sleep.

* * *

Bang! Bang! Bang! "Reaping is in an hour! Get up!"

My eyes burst open. Sunlight trickles into the room through my bedroom window and lightly caresses my face with warmth.

Bang! Bang! Bang! "Reaping is in an hour! Get up Sunspeare!"

The nasally voice of Mrs Shell's grate my ears unpleasantly. Her voice reminds me of the tin, front door when it scrapes against the concrete floor.

"Awake," I yell back.

"You are missing breakfast! Come and get it or miss out!" Mrs Shell screeches. I hear her feet thud against the floor as she marches away. Please, I'm not eating her sandy seaweed and fish scrap lumps for breakfast.

I take a shower first. The line was long but I easily got to the front by shoving a bit of green into a kid's hand. The little girl looked up at me as if I were a goddess. Ha, what a joke.

The shower head splutters out ice cold water that quickly wakes me up. I lather the small, lavender scented soap on my skin and then let the cold water wash it away. Lavender reminds me of Emily and I splurged on the soap because of her.

For the reaping I decide to wear my leather jacket. The frosty air still has a bite and I feel badass when I wear it.

I wear a white, ruffled shirt, black jeans and my combat boots. Tidy and formal enough. Tidier than the faded grey, stained clothes the House provides.

I use my fingers to comb my wet tangles of dark locks into a high ponytail and imprison my hair with a black hair tie.

I stroll down the hallway and eyes following every step I take. When I skitter down the stairs, eyes still follow me. Everyone in the orphanage likes to stare at me even Mrs Shell's sometimes. She sees a profit in me.

Mrs Shell's clients eye me too. I do a few fancy twirls with a knife and they quickly avert their gaze.

I've lost enough, I'm not losing myself too. Control over my body is all I have left. I just have to keep working until my last reaping has finished and then I'll be free.

Mrs Shell is waiting at the door and she looks at me expectantly. I remove her share of my earnings. Eyes still follow me and they watch as I hand over green bills to Mrs Shell. Mrs Shell bites her thin bottom lip like always and her blue eyes hungrily eye the notes as she counts them.

"An extra ten?" Mrs Shell asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Feeling generous, I can take it back," I move forward to claim the extra note but Mrs Shell holds the greenery protectively to her chest.

Mrs Shell plasters a fake smile on her face and she shrieks delightedly, "Oh, no dear. I will use this to buy more groceries for the other children. I will excuse you."

The tin door screeches as Mrs Shell scrapes it across the concrete floor and she moves so I can escape.

Groceries for the other children? More like groceries to add another chin to your collection, I think. Mrs Shell buying proper food for the other children is like Declan going celibate.

"Thanks," I mumble before quickly fleeing from the grim house.

The fresh scent of the morning lifts my mood and I walk briskly to the nearest bakery. This morning I decide to splurge on a piece of fresh bread _and_ a small bottle of milk. In my nice clothes the baker is kind and he even jests about the weather, but when I am in my messy clothes he is less agreeable.

Less people are on the streets.

Most of them are either flowing towards the District Square early or are hiding away in their houses as long as they can. The people on the street smile brightly and mimic the warmth of the sun but the crease near their eyebrows reveal their worry.

Even faced aged with lines and wrinkles are pulled into a fake happy expression. Everyone is worried. However, when it comes to the reaping we all stand tall and proud. We all pretend to be brave and defiant even if our faces are lies to our inner thoughts. Everyone has a mask.

After every crumb of my pie has been devoured I then stroll slowly towards the District Square. Horses pull carriages of the well-off citizens towards the District Square while the rest of us walk on the footpath.

Young children of different heights all cuddle into the sides of their parents or caregivers. Older children walk closely beside their parents, caregivers or friends. All of them are in the formal wear of either dress pants, dress shirts, nice shorts, skirts, white shirts or pretty dresses. Grey, white, black or blue tones merge together in the sea of people flowing towards the District Square.

Everyone looks nice for the reaping but not out of choice. We all have to treat the reaping like a ceremonial event. The fat cats love to rub salt on our wounds.

The term fat cats is a term of endearment for the people of the Capitol. The fat cats have easy lives because they live off our hard work. The reaping is how the fat cats entertain themselves and punish us. Two tributes, male and female, are chosen to compete in the Hunger Games. The Hunger Games is an annual event celebrated by the fat cats. Every district has two tributes reaped and all twenty-four tributes fight to the death in an arena.

The tributes are selected from age twelve to age eighteen. The age starts from twelve because supposedly the youngest person found in the rebellion was a twelve year old boy from District 2.

The Hunger Games is our punishment for the Rebellion of the Districts or the Dark Days.

For the reaping we all gather at the District Square.

The District Square is a large, empty concrete space surrounded by buildings. In front of the District Square is the District Hall. The District Hall is just a concrete, rectangle slab of a building with pretty statues and poles. It is a huge, fancy building for our mayor and all of our other officials. The Head Peacekeeper's office is in there. My dad used to have to drop his paperwork off here all the time.

Our District Hall has a huge, stone podium at the front which stone steps lead up to. The District Hall is used as our reaping stadium. Tall, thick poles support a silver canopy that shields the stadium from the sun's glow, but after the reaping the canopy is removed. The District Square is where they gather us all and part us into two categories; male and female.

Around the District Square are buildings, which is why some people informally call it the Courtyard of Death. These buildings are mostly the expensive shops with fancy, glistening windows and fake people wearing garments. During the reaping the fat cats use these buildings for their camera equipment.

Families begin to whisper and embrace their children in front of the walkway. The walkway is a wide space between a fancy clothes store and a bakery; it is also the only entrance to the District Square.

Everyone hates this place. The officials try to make the District Square welcoming and pretty with the occasional rose bush and fancy tree but there is still a cold feeling to this place.

Today is always exceptionally cold even though it is a beautiful sunny day. Some whisper that the ghost of tributes join us every year on a death march. I think they are buttering seaweed and calling it bread. Who the hell would come back here after death? I'd haunt the hell out of Capitol if I were a ghost.

I tap my shoes impatiently against the concrete path and frown at the families blocking my way. The families have created a wall blocking the rest of us from the District Square.

"Excuse me, sorry, thank you," is my chant as I squeeze through places between different families and join my line. There are two lines, one for males and one for females.

Every year it is the same, families block the way in. Only possible tributes are allowed in the District Square; parents, family members, friends, gamblers and all the rest of District 4 have to stay outside the walls of the buildings. The fat cats placed two huge TV screens on the back of the buildings for them; decorated by a frame of pearls because such a festive occasion has to be properly decorated. Salt rubbed on the wound.

The line is long and agonisingly slow. Every two minutes we take a step forward but there are probably hundreds of girls in front of me. Not that I'm complaining about the amount, the more there are than the less chance I have of getting picked.

The mayor is talking. I don't know his name because I don't particularly care. He is a Capitol puppet and he regularly attends the House.

He flaps his gums loudly and the speakers shriek out his verbal vomit. The apocalypse, great Panem, the Dark Days, our traitorous actions of rebellion and the forgiveness of the Capitol are all he prattles on about.

Tsunamis, hurricanes, earthquakes, cyclones and other natural disasters – how terrible they were and blah, blah, blah – and then the rise of Panem. Oh, the great, holy and divine nation rose from the destruction – waffles on about the greatness and blah, blah, blah – and thirteen districts and the great Capitol were born.

I've heard it all before. It sounds the same every year. The mayor kisses as much of the Capitol's ass as he can. Great this and great that. Every big word he has in his vocabulary, he uses them all to tell us of the splendour of the Capitol.

He can butter seaweed as much as he likes but it will never be bread.

There are twelve districts in Panem and the Capitol; there used to be thirteen districts but District 13 was destroyed as punishment for the rebellion. The Capitol is the leader of every district and we have to listen to their rules or die. All of our fisheries exist for them, all twelve of them and none of the fish or shellfish that go through the fisheries are ever consumed by us.

Our entire district exists to fish for them. Fishing is our main livelihood.

In school, the first thing we are taught are how to fish, make nets, ties ropes, make hooks, make sinkers and anything else that has got to do with fishing.

In the public school most of our classes were us out on the boats helping the fisheries meet their quota. Other days we were doing basic math and other school subjects. Once a week we even had a day committed to brainwashing us into believing the splendour of the Capitol; I hated school on Mondays.

By age ten we can all use a spear because of spear fishing. It gives us an advantage in the games but not much compared to District 1 and District 2; both of them are dedicated to the games and winning. In District 2, the children have an academy where they can learn different ways to kill a person.

We have similar tributes to District 1 and District 2 at the private academy. District 4 elites all have their children attend the Pearl Pacific Academy of District 4. At that school they don't go to help the fisheries meet their quota, they are trained for survival; martial arts, weapon use, fishing skills, making traps and snares, detailed understanding of edible and poisonous plants and the strengths and weaknesses of Capitol mutations. I attended that academy from age three to twelve years old.

From age three the children of the elite are trained to kill and survive. My brother and I were one of them.

My dad expressed importance in training. We had no choice.

My brother hated it. My brother couldn't pull a wing off a fly without crying.

I loved it. My dad used to tell me that I was more of a Quartzite than a Sunspeare.

On my fifth birthday, he gifted me a set of silver knives.

On my tenth birthday, he gifted me a spear.

On my eleventh birthday, he gifted me with two swords.

My dad was from District 2, he had been sent to District 4 to serve as a peacekeeper. He had meant to return but he fell in love with my mum.

Triztan Quartzite was his name. I took my mum's surname and my brother took his. I lost everything after his death. The district dumped me into the House. Foster parents were afraid of a lethal charge.

My father always said that my rage could spawn a bloodlust nearly equal to his. My brother was too kind to even think of hurting anyone.

"Next!" Finally I reach the front of the line.

The lady barely acknowledges me. She pricks my finger for a drop of blood and my details appear on the screen of her device.

"Next!" I take that as a cue to go to my place in my line.

The mayor now talks about District 13 and a huge TV screen on the District Hall reveals an image of the ruins. I move to my place in the line and look at what is left of District 13. Once again it is the same picture I have seen for the last couple of years; the same crumbled remnants of a building.

The mayor waffles on about the Treaty of Treason. The Treaty of Treason was signed by all twelve districts and the Capitol and the treaty gives the Capitol permission to hold the Hunger Games. After the destruction of District 13 the other districts quickly surrendered. I find it strange that the Capitol doesn't show the entire district in tatters because it isn't like them to not gloat.

"And now we must repent for the mistakes we made in the past," the mayor bellows and the image of District 13 transforms into our escort's face, Helena Goldheart.

Helena's face is painted white like usual. Her lips are painted red but the paint is smeared to make her lips look like a heart.

The top of her dress is the shape of a heart and her skirt fans out. Her dress is red, of course and it is glittery, of course. Red to match her hair and lips, glittery to make her stand out more. Anything and everything to make Helena stand out.

"Happy 69th Annual Hunger Games. Before we start let me introduce your previous victors," Helena squeals into the microphone. Helena's eyelashes are the size of half my pinkie finger and she bats them at Finnick Odair.

"Finnick Odair the victor of the 65th Annual Hunger Games and the youngest tribute to ever win the games at age fourteen," Helena squeals loudly.

Finnick Odair steps forward, smirks, winks and waves to us all. All of the girls around me release long, adoring sighs. I can't believe them. They are all at their possible funeral and yet they are drooling over a guy. Sometimes I don't understand people and their priorities. Last year, Mikayla Marine volunteered just so she could possibly win and be with Odair. The idiotic girl gushed over him throughout her entire interview with Caesar Flickerman. She wasted her three minutes and didn't get a single sponsor.

Finnick Odair is the guy everyone in the Capitol wants and no one wanted him taken off the market. So, of course, she died early in the games. The tree falling on her was no accident.

Finnick Odair won the 65th Hunger Games at age fourteen by trapping tributes in a net and killing them with his trident. His trident, a trident made out of pure gold, was a gift from a sponsor and the most expensive gift a tribute has ever received.

Some say he is Adonis in a mortal form. Ha, yeah right and I sprung out of my dad's head.

"Mags Cohen, the victor of the 11th Annual Hunger Games," Helena squeals but she doesn't tear her gaze away from Odair's ass.

Mags Cohen steps forward and stands beside Finnick. She is an old tribute from the 11th Hunger Games. I heard she won her games on her survival skills alone. She apparently only mercy killed tributes and spent the rest of her time outliving everyone else.

I've seen her once before. I was only eight years old. She wore a flowy, long white dress that dragged along the marble floor. Her features were much softer, less lined but her blue eyes are still just as bright. Her voice had been softer than whisper.

Everyone in the district adores her. She is the mother of the district; genuinely warm, soft, loving and everything maternal. According to Giraffe, she used to visit the House every Sunday to read a story to the children but after her stroke she stopped her visits.

The left half of her face droops slightly now but it didn't before. Not when I saw her.

We used to have more than two victors. District 1, 2 and 4 have the highest amounts of victors. I think altogether we have had around seven victors but some of them died of illnesses and ailments and the rest are in the loony bin. Mags and Finnick are our only sane, living tributes.

"Now, we will also watch a fabulous video made for you by the Capitol," Helena shrieks and she quickly loops her arms with Finnick and Mags. Women in the Capitol must be fuming because she is touching their golden boy. I wonder, will a tree fall on her too?

The video is a joke we all have to watch. On my first year in the reaping pool, one boy was captured looking away and afterwards he was publically punished. The video is just a collection of shots of how our betrayal affected the innocent people in the Capitol and how we lost.

President Snow talks all through the video about how the games glue Panem together and helps make Panem a great nation. President Snow, like our mayor, tries to butter seaweed and call it bread. His lips give me a good laugh. His lips are two fat sausages pressed together and when he talks he reminds me of a fish.

I can do great imitations of him, I used to make Giraffe laugh all the time; it is easy, part your lips like a fish and hiss like a sea snake.

The anthem sounds signalling the end of the video and the beginning of the reaping process.

"Now, I shall select our female tribute for the 69th Annual Hunger Games," Helena announces with excitement gleaming in her eyes. Her dark red hair is curvy like waves and the waves bounce against her back as she struts towards the crystal bowl.

My name is in draw four times. One for when I was twelve, one for when I was thirteen, one for when I was fourteen and another one because I am fifteen. Four times. Four slips for each year I have been in the draw. I've never taken tesserae, I don't want to feed Mrs Shell's fat face. Besides, I don't want the poor children to have to roll her down the stairs.

Helena takes her time swirling her hand around in the crystal bowl.

Panic sets in. I can hear my heart thudding. I just want to run away. I hope it isn't me. Life has sucked enough. The Capitol has robbed me of a mother, a brother, a father and friends. Isn't that enough?

Helena pulls out a name, I hope it isn't mine, and she struts towards the microphone.

I've been unlucky enough. I've lost enough. Please don't be me. Please don't be me. Surely, surely the universe has done tormenting me.

Apparently the universe hasn't.

The name Athena Sunspeare rolls off Helena's tongue and seals my fate. At first it is like a punch to the gut; all of the breath is knocked from my lungs and stolen from me. Then, everything becomes numb.

Time freezes and my life momentarily stops.

"We were all born to die, some are meant to die sooner than others," Mrs Shell had told me nonchalantly after disposing of Giraffe.

I guess I was born to die sooner than others too.

* * *

**I designed the House the way I did because of what Suzanne Collins wrote in the Hunger Games about the children in foster care in District 12 and how Katniss didn't want to end up in there. I wanted to play around with the theme of child abuse and exploitation Katniss slightly hinted at. **

**I made Athena the daughter of a peacekeeper to make her skills make some sort of sense.**

**I also played with the concept of District 4 career tributes by creating a private academy, but I made the specialised training reserved for the elite. Only so the divide in the district is clear and also District 4's population is quite huge for just one school.**

**I hope it wasn't that bad. District 4 is seen as one of the top district's and I wanted to show the dark side within it. **

**I wanted to show another narrative to District 4. In the last book, I have heard that Katniss saw the mast of boats, waves crashing over the rocks and fun days on the beach in Finnick's eyes. Katniss and Peeta had different lives in the same district so I wanted to create different lives for Athena and Finnick.**

**Please review and give me thoughts on the character. **

**Don't worry, there will be no OC and Finnick romance. The character I have written is probably to wary of guys to participate in a relationship.**

**Give me your thoughts and impressions. **


	3. A Long Train Ride

**Hello.**

**Thank you for the follows, review and favourite for this story. I am incredibly grateful.**

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"Athena Sunspeare, please come to the stage," Helena shrieks and the speakers echo her order. My ankles lock together and I stand rooted to this spot. Maybe if they can't find me she will pick another name.

The girls in my row all take a step back to reveal me to the fat cats. The girls didn't even stop to think about it, they acted as soon as they heard my name be called.

It is at least nice to know that girls in my age group know my name.

I flick my gaze to the big screen and see myself staring back. My wide, stunned eyes and parted lips reveal my shock to everyone in Panem. The thought of fat cats watching me manages to flick a switch in my mind. My lips lock together, my eyes narrow and now the girl on the screen looks fierce. Inwardly I am trembling in my boots.

I square my shoulders and force my feet on a brisk death march to the podium. Every step towards the podium is a step closer to my grave. I want to cry. My stubborn pride builds a dam but my fear threatens to break it.

A sea of eyes follows each step I take even as I ascend the steps. I hate it. I hate all of the attention on me. It should be prohibited to gawk openly at a corpse at her funeral.

I take thirteen steps up the staircase towards my death. The universe loves irony. The actions of thirteen districts are the reason I am going to die.

Helena's face looks a little bumpy on her cheeks, forehead and nose close up; I guess her paint is used to hide her pimples. More paint has been used to draw thin eyebrows on her face too.

It is strange concept to me, someone hiding their imperfections behind layers of paint and artificial features. Her nose looks too small to be natural and her lips look like she had an allergic reaction to something.

Helena studies me as well.

Her eyes trail up my body before stopping on my face. I can't decipher her feelings clearly because her face is too stiff and still. Her eyes remind me of cold, sharp ice and her piercing gaze covers my skin with chills. The leather layer can't protect me from her icy look.

I stand beside her and she instantly shifts her gaze away from me.

She doesn't like me. Good. I don't like her either.

"Is there a volunteer?" Helena asks the sea of eyes but no one steps forward.

Usually the escort asks the tribute a question but Helena blatantly ignores me. Instead she is eyeing the sea with desperation. She looks desperate for any other fish to reel in, but no one bites her bait.

"Welllet'smoveontoourmaletribute," Helena sounds frazzled and her sentence merges into one long word. She struts hurriedly towards the male crystal bowl and rips out the first paper she touches.

"Rory Mollusc," Helena calls. A small boy is left alone as the other boys move away from him. He is standing at the front, in our district the front is reserved for the youngest and the back for the eldest. This Rory is obviously only twelve and this is his first year in the reaping draw. This kid probably only had one slip.

His frightened, wide, doe-like brown eyes are frozen on Helena. A weird sense of déjà vu washes over me; this scene is oddly familiar. I stare at him bewildered as his features begin to morph into someone familiar. His brown eyes blur until they are dark shade of blue.

Marcus.

An old wound is ripped apart. I'm so, so glad that the cameras are on his face instead of mine. The pain is unbearable and inescapable. I can't compare it to anything. No words can describe it. It's just… overwhelming.

I see Marcus even as Rory's unique, long, dark brown waves sway side to side against his face. Long, dark brown waves transform into golden ringlets.

"Come on," Helena squeals and peacekeepers move towards him. The peacekeepers surround Rory and usher him forcefully towards the podium. I rip my gaze away from him and try to recover the tattered pieces of my mask.

"Any volunteers?" Helena asks. My eyes scan the sea of eyes and I hope that one of them will take the bait. No one does. I have to build a wall. I have to build a wall and place it between us. I can't… I can't physically stomach the idea of having to kill someone who…

"Shake hands," Helena squeals into the microphone and I finally look down at Rory. Rory extends his hand to me and I hesitantly shake it.

I don't want to touch him. I don't want to be near him. I shake his hand for half a second before tugging my hand away.

Rory's brown eyes curiously study me but, when Helena speaks, his fear quickly returns.

"Happy Hunger Games all and may the odds be ever in your favour."

The national anthem of Panem blasts out of the speakers and the peacekeepers circle around Rory and me.

Two, large wooden doors fly out and the peacekeepers beckon us forward.

Inside the District Hall it is beautiful. Shiny marble floors and cream coloured walls. There are even a few concrete statues on pillars. The statues are mermaids with long, curly locks covering their bare chests.

"She's ghastly isn't she Finnick," Helena wails loudly which draws my attention away from the beauty of the District Hall.

I look over my shoulder but the doors are being closed by two men dressed in black. However, I briefly catch a glimpse of Finnick and Helena looking at me.

Ghastly? I'm _ghastly_? That is ironic coming from the woman who has very obviously altered her looks and covered her imperfections with paint!

Anger flows through my veins as her words ignite my fiery temper. I ball my hands into fists and clench my teeth together.

"I think you're beautiful," Rory's innocent and genuinely kind words extinguish my anger.

"You are obviously the only person with that opinion," I reply.

I'm not concerned about my looks but I have feelings. She obviously wanted me to hear them both call me ugly.

"Do you really trust the woman who coves her face in that white powder stuff?" Rory asks me cheekily.

His wide, brown eyes peer up at me innocently and his soft, genuine smile is contagious. I stop myself instantly after I find myself smiling down at him, but his eyes caught my smile. His smile widens until the corners of his lips can almost reach his ears.

"You look even more beautiful when you smile especially with the dents in your face," Rory informs me.

"Dents in my face?" I ask confused but I understand when he touches his cheeks. "They are dimples and… thanks," I reply quietly.

The fear still lingers in his eyes but the childlike sparkle begins to glow brightly.

In his eyes I can see years of laughter and love bottled up.

Peacekeepers lead him towards a door and the little brat makes sure to wave at me before he enters the room.

It is probably his plan to soften his competitor so that his competitor won't kill him. I will have to stay away from him. He can't see me as a friend or an ally.

The peacekeepers lead me into a room too. The room is bare except it has a desk and a leather couch.

"You get an hour of visitors before you leave for the train station," the peacekeeper informs me. I know this voice. I swivel around to study his features and my gaze softens. Uncle Jon gives me a small smile before closing the door. I feel better knowing that one of my dad's close friends is guarding my room.

I quickly study my surroundings a little more critically. Wooden floors that shine under a glamorous light fixture that reminds me of a wind chime, powder blue walls decorated by one large painting of the sea and long, sand coloured curtains drawn tightly together. The only furniture in this room is the polished, wooden desk that is the same colour as the floor and the white leather couch.

The painting is a mixture of blues, white and purples blended together for the waves, a mixture of grey hues for the rocks and dabs of green for the seaweed. It simply captures waves crashing into rocks but the painter has developed the scene to make it much more flamboyant.

I begin to pace backwards and forwards across the wooden floors. The wait is agitating and long. I won't get visitors unless Mrs Shell wants to inform me that she is taking my stuff. Ha! She doesn't have much to take.

Will anyone attend my funeral? Surely Mrs Shell will. I mean, she is my legal guardian.

A wonderful thought appears in my mind; Mrs Shell is my legal guardian but that could change if I win the games. A smile spreads across my face as I imagine being in control of my own life.

No more Mrs Shell, no more Lorcan, no more Declan and no more Panem.

When a tribute wins, Panem recognises them as an adult. So if I win I will be in charge of myself.

I could afford a boat with the winning money and just leave Panem forever.

I continue to pace, my footsteps have probably worn out the polish on the wooden floor.

Mrs Shell doesn't come. No one does. Uncle Jon opens the door and informs me that my hour is up.

Uncle Jon doesn't speak to me again. I wish he would except I know he could be punished for speaking out of term. He probably learned from my father's mistake to obey protocol.

Uncle Jon and three of his colleagues escort me outside to a black car. I've been in a car once before with my dad. Uncle Jon opens the door and I slip inside. I try to catch his gaze but his gaze is averted to the ground.

No words of encouragement or a farewell, he simply closes the door. I understand why he can't speak to me but it doesn't lessen the hurt I feel. This experience has only reminded me that I have absolutely no one.

Rory is already inside the car crying.

"Oh, hey, did you get to say goodbye too?" Rory asks me as he furiously rubs away his tears. His tears don't stop, when they can't flow down his cheeks, they change course and flow down his fists. Rory gives up his fight to stop them.

Rory slumps his shoulders in his seat and releases a loud cry.

"I'm afraid," Rory wails and he hugs his knees to his chest.

Rory looks smaller than he really is. He shouldn't be here. He should be at home playing with his friends and spending time with his family.

"Me too," I confess softly to him. I know I shouldn't be talking to him because attachments to people in the games can only result in agony. However, I, I just want to…

Seven years ago Marcus sat in his place and I can only hope that the female tribute that sat in mine tried to do the same for him.

Rory tilts his face to the side to look at me.

His bottom lip wobbles slightly as he exclaims, "But you look strong and you're really pretty so the people will help you!"

I choose not to reply to that comment. He's half right, I am strong because I am trained. He is also half wrong, I doubt the fat cats will help me based on my looks.

Rory continues to cry, in fact he cries more. He has good reason to be afraid and to cry. Rory is a guppy about to be thrown into a tank filled with sharks. He's so small that he makes me look tall. In our district, he is too young to enter a club but he is old enough to enter the arena. Panem is a joke. A cruel, cruel joke of a nation based on oppression and not the so called freedom the fat cats boast about.

The fat cats will be waiting for us at the train station. All of them waiting excitedly to reveal our faces to everyone in Panem, more importantly to the other tributes. Everyone will be judging us from the moment we step out of this car.

Rory is already a target and looking like a cry baby will only make him a bigger target.

"There is going to be a lot of people at the train station," I gently inform him.

Rory settles his chin on his knees and mumbles, "I know."

How can mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents watch the children of others die? The fat cats have decayed hearts buried beneath the multiple layers of paint. No matter how much paint they wear, it will never hide how truly ugly they are.

Was Marcus this scared? The thought of Marcus crying like Rory… it burns and stings like fresh wound being dipped into the sea.

My pull my mind away from thoughts of Marcus by focusing on Rory's leaking brown eyes. Rory tried to cheer my up with his kindness so I owe him a little. However, no compliment or praise escapes my lips. I don't want to be too nice. Feed a stray dog and it will come back for more.

Maybe a good laugh will make his sad tears look like happy ones.

"You know, Helena might think you are just as ghastly as I am," I jest lightly in a mock Capitol accent. It is really easy to mock the fat cats. Open your mouth slightly, roll vowels off your tongue like a hiss and end your sentences on a high note.

Small giggles bubble out from between Rory's lips before he throws his head back and roars with laughter. I would never have known that loud laughter could come from such a small person. Tears leak down his cheeks again except they are good, happy tears.

"She'll be like, oh Finnick isn't he ghastly," Rory splutters out in a very bad rendition of a Capitol accent. I laugh but only because of his terrible Capitol accent. The sound of my laughter seems odd but maybe I think it is odd because it is rare.

"Or, oh Finnick we shall have to paint him white and draw some black ticks on his forehead for eyebrows," I add jokingly as I think of her terrible alterations. Rory laughs more and I have to fight back another bout of laughter.

"Maybe its lack of air to her head. Her nostrils are the size of dots," Rory jokes and I laugh so hard that my stomach hurts. I can't stop laughing no matter how hard I try. All I can see is Helena desperately trying to suck air through two full stop sized nostrils. The fat cat would probably snort like a pig in her attempt!

We both sober up as the car pulls in to the train station. It is a surprise to suddenly be here. I didn't even notice that the car had even left District Hall.

The train station is filled with photographers and film crews. All of them wait to eagerly capture images of District 4's tributes. Our district is generally a Capitol favourite in the games because we have a high chance of winning compared to a district like District Eleven. Finnick Odair has also boosted our popularity by flaunting his good looks in the Capitol.

Everyone in our district knows that Finnick jumps from one bed to the next in the Capitol. Declan often complains about Finnick Odair's luck.

This is an important moment for both of us. I need to make sure I look like a worthy competitor and Rory needs to make sure he avoids looking like an easy target.

"Good luck," Rory whispers with a silly smile still on his face. His eyes aren't as bloodshot as they were before and he looks like he has been laughing more than crying. Good. I wear the fierce, determined mask I wore at the reaping ceremony again.

We both exit the car only to be met by flashing white lights from dozens of cameras.

Flashes of bright white lights are everywhere. It is almost blinding. All of the fat cats are buzzing with excitement and they keep calling our names. I've never heard my name be repeated so much by so many different people.

I hate the attention. I'd prefer to be in the shadows than in the light. In the open you are left vulnerable.

Chin up, square your shoulders, walk confidently and pretend they aren't there, I think to myself.

I stride confidently towards the train station with Rory by my side. I catch a glimpse of us on a screen. My mask is intact and Rory looks all happy-go-lucky and his eyes are still twinkling with laughter.

I didn't know Rory had it in him. His cheerful expression is like a slap to the fat cats faces. They want us scared and powerless but Rory looks like he is having a proper laugh at their expense.

I find myself smirking down at him at the same time I find him grinning up at me.

Our mentors and Helena are all standing beside the entrance to the train.

We share another amused look after noticing Helena's sour expression. Helena's eyes are narrowed and her lips are pressed tightly together. Unfortunately for her, she looks more constipated than annoyed.

"Now turn around and smile for Panem," Helena hisses at us when we reach her side.

Rory and I spin around but the smirk slips from my face. I stand stiffly and wait for the tirade of photographs to finish. I hate this. I hate all of this attention. Why is one photograph not enough for them? Can't they just leave me alone?

"We can enter the train now," Helena hisses behind us.

Instead of letting me move, Helena decides to take one of my hands and tug me into the train. Once we are in the train, she steps away from me as if I am diseased. I don't get what her problem is.

The train suddenly jolts and I nearly tumble over. I part my legs into a steady stance and prepare myself for the train to jolt again.

However, the train just continues to trudge along at a fast speed and only rocks slightly side to side. The rocking and swaying part is okay because I am used to a boat doing the same.

"Well, I'm sure you are both tired and want to retire to your beds to sleep," Helena quickly babbles out as if she cares about our well-being.

"It is morning. We both have just woken up from a sleep," Rory retorts.

Helena splutters and looks lost for words, so I come up with a suggestion, "You could let us watch District 1, 2 and 3's reaping so we can see the other tributes."

Helena gives me a sour look as if I just placed a slice of lemon inside of her mouth. What is Helena's problem? Her attitude towards us has been ghastly.

"That is a good idea. Finnick and I will come with you to give you both some advice," Mags responds softly in Helena's stead.

"But a mentor should stay with me so we can plan an approach," Helena basically hisses out with her eyes on Finnick.

"I think we can plan an approach all together afterwards," Mags retorts. To my surprise Helena growls, throws her hands up into the air and stomps outside the train room to another connecting room.

It feels a little awkward now after her abrupt tantrum. Rory and I both share confused looks. Our escort doesn't want to escort us at all. In fact, our escort looks like she wants to throw us out of a train window instead.

"Sorry about that. We will lead you both to the viewing room," Mags says softly.

At least our mentors want to mentor us.

Rory and I follow her down the narrow hallway to another room that has a TV and a large couch. Mags presses the screen a few times until we can see District 1's reaping.

Both tributes are outstandingly good looking. The fat cats call Lacy an exquisite gem. It is easy to see why. She is beautiful.

Dazzle, the male tribute, is like his name; dazzling.

"Both of them will use their looks to get sponsors," Mags informs us softly and I tilt my head to the side to face her. I don't think Mags remembers me. I don't blame her. She did barely see me and back then I was just a snivelling, snot-nosed brat.

"So, can Athena use hers?" Rory asks curiously and I instinctively scoff loudly. This catches all of their attention as all of their eyes flicker to stare at me.

"I'd sooner throw myself into a pool of piranharks," I say angrily.

Mags opens her mouth but soon clamps her lips together. She looks like she wants to say something and finally she does, "Athena, your looks could save you in the arena."

Looks don't save people but, I guess they can earn me some perverted sponsors. However, I don't want perverted sponsors looking at me the same way Lorcan and Declan do.

"I'd rather die as myself than as someone else they made me," I diplomatically respond. I don't want to offend my other mentor, who does parade himself around for the fat cats. I need his help and the fat cats would devour me like piranharks if I offend their golden boy.

Wait.

Realisation sinks in and I finally understand Helena's attitude. She thinks I am a threat. She thinks that I might be interested in Finnick.

I swivel around and glare fiercely at Finnick. "You are going to get me killed," I hiss angrily at him. Finnick has to the audacity to look confused. Confused? Look what happened to Mikayla Marine for goodness sake! Has he not connected the dots? Trees do not fall on people accidentally in the arena.

"All of your stupid admirers will want me to dead! Look at Helena, my own bloody escort for the games hates me because of you!" I snarl angrily at him.

Finnick's eyes go wide as realisation sinks into him.

I turn my back to him only to face Rory. "Don't worry," he says in an attempt to reassure me. "I can tell them in my interview that you think Finnick is ugly."

"Yes but then I have offended their golden boy and two trees will fall on me," I exclaim exasperatedly.

Helena suddenly bursts into the room.

"Hold on, hold on, hold on!" She exclaims breathlessly. Her sudden happy mood is both strange and infuriating to me; more the latter because of how rude she has been.

"You aren't interested in Finnick at all?" Helena asks.

"No!" I exclaim exasperatedly. "I'm going to an arena to fight or die, I don't particularly give two shits about Odair other than his advice on how to survive!"

Helena squeals and claps her hands together like an excited child. "I don't understand how you can resist his good looks but I love you all the more because of that," Helena exclaims.

"Good looks don't necessary denote a good person," I respond annoyed and I cross my arms. Helena nods excitedly at my response making her red hair bounce around her painted face. She is just glad that I am not interested in Finnick, the stupid cow.

Helena then proceeds to gush over my features, "Oh your eye colour is amazing, I wish I had the pair myself." Helena says some more compliments but I ignore her. She only spews more and more lies every time she parts her lips.

She doesn't like anything about me.

Next, we all watch District 2's reaping. I cannot help but marvel at the rowdy, enthusiastic crowd and I try to imagine my equally as eager dad amongst them all. My dad had once been reaped too but his brother volunteered and took his place. It peeved him off until as a peacekeeper he met my mum. My dad never spoke about his brother. He's probably dead.

The male tribute is monstrous. Sol is a 7ft tower of pure muscle and raw strength. He could easily snap me in half. He could crush Rory with a single step. Sol is the brute force I have to be wary off, but hopefully he just charges forward and trusts his raw strength. A smart and powerful brute like him would be freakishly formidable and unfair.

The District 2 female looks just as strong as Sol. Ivy has a lithe, athletic build. Her eyes are piercing and sharp like hawk eyes. She is obviously well-trained. When they called for volunteers her fierce gaze alone quietened every female. If someone had wanted to volunteer, I bet they quickly changed their mind. I will never forget her steel gaze.

District 3's tributes are geeky and gaunt but they are still formidable opponents. Everyone thinks of the victor Beetee when they think of District 3 now; he electrocuted the remaining tributes to win his game. Their gaunt and skinny frames make people forget their intelligence. I won't make that mistake. If there is water in the arena the District 3 tributes are going to be my first targets. I remember my dad telling the story of Beetee to Marcus before Marcus was taken away.

"Don't be too cocky and judge someone based on how they look. A clever opponent can deadly if he or she is underestimated," was the advice he told Marcus.

Next we are taken to another room to have lunch. The other districts haven't finished their reaping ceremonies yet.

We all sit around a nice table that has cutlery set out for us. To my surprise we even have servants to serve us.

For lunch we have three courses.

The first course is a seafood soup with District 4's signature seaweed bread. I only eat the bread. I'm a little iffy about the seafood soup because of my experience at the House. In the House's soup you find scales, fins, guts, eyes, and tails. The second course is roasted chicken, roast vegetables and gravy. Chicken is very expensive in our district so the main course is a treat. After the main course I am beyond full.

Rory shovels down all of the food from every course. I don't know where all that food is going.

Rory eagerly devoured my piece of cake after I informed him that I didn't like sweets.

Mags, Helena and Rory talk over lunch about small things like the weather, the food or the train. Helena tries to include me but I'm not really interested. Rory constantly tells jokes and manages to make both Helena and Mags laugh; Rory has that effect on people I've discovered. Helena babbled on about the splendour of the train for awhile and she seemed quite to be upset at me for not picking up every glamorous detail.

I want to tell her that I do pay attention to detail but I decide not to because she is partly right.

I didn't notice that the train walls are covered by a creamy white wallpaper. I didn't notice that train room has a marble floor. I didn't notice the intricate floral design on the plates. I didn't notice that the light that looks like the light in the District Hall room. Helena had to point out every detail to me. However, I did notice some details about the people in the room.

Finnick shies away from any attention and tries to shift the attention onto others. In fact, Finnick seems uncomfortable with Helena's advances. Mags's posture becomes stiff whenever Helena leans towards her. Whenever Helena tries to bring Finnick into the conversation, Mags tries to help him escape Helena's attention. Helena's gaze constantly flickers to Finnick. Rory always speaks over Helena if she is being overly critical of something or someone.

My dad always told me to study my environment first, but these people have captured my attention. Mags and Finnick are an interesting pair. Both of them look like they are close.

After lunch Mags and Finnick decide to give us both advice for the arena. Mags and Finnick move our little meeting to a u-shaped sofa by the train's back window. Outside the window you can see parts of the fuelling station and Mags informs us that they are topping the train's fuel tanks.

"I don't feel well," Rory complains while our escort and mentors chat between themselves.

"You shouldn't have been a pig," I respond and I can't help but smile at his misery. It'll teach him.

"I think I'm going to puke," Rory whines, he groans and clutches his stomach.

A brilliant idea blossoms in my mind and I quickly tell him it, "Aim it at Helena."

Rory laughs a little before his laughter dissolves into a miserable groan. "Ow, laughter hurts," Rory whines.

"Rory, are you feeling okay?" Mags asks concerned.

"He wants Helena to sit by him," I inform Mags and Helena swiftly reacts by sitting next to him. Perfect. Mags stares suspiciously at me so I squash my smile and try to look concerned for Rory.

Come on guppy, I think, puke on her.

Helena and Finnick talk about the importance of sponsors. Helena even creates a list and we have to try and tick off some of her requirements. The guppy can nearly tick off all of her requirements but I certainly can't.

Be friendly? Ha, fat chance in hell. I don't think I can string a single nice thing together to say to a fat cat.

Be flirty? What a joke. I literally hate them all and I can't lie to save myself.

Be funny? Do fat cats like jokes about them? I bet not.

Be polite? Why would I be polite to the people excited about my death?

Make an impression? How? Juggle knives or something?

That is only a small part of Helena's list. I know I'm not getting a single sponsor.

"We were thinking that you should use your charm, friendliness and humour to your advantage Rory," Mags tells Rory and I agree with them. Rory has the ability to win people over and he should definitely use that to his advantage. Who knows, he might get a trident like Finnick did.

"But I'm only twelve. Do they sponsor twelve years old boys?" Rory replies sounding a little unsure.

Helena grabs both of his hands and shakes them excitedly. She elatedly exclaims, "Well, of course Rory! In fact, one year one boy your age had a lot of sponsors because he was handsome and kind."

"Really?" Rory asks. I guess Helena isn't too bad. She has managed to brighten Rory up.

"Oh yes, it was sad that he died but his death was glorious!" Helena excitedly informs Rory. I take it back, she is still a horrible person. How could anyone's death be glorious?

"Which game and how did he die?" Rory asks Helena hesitantly.

Helena quickly answers him, "The 62nd Hunger Games, I think. Oh, yes and he was from District 4 too and-"

My entire body freezes.

I was eight years old. Blocked out by the buildings that fenced the District Square in, I watched the reaping on the left TV screen. The atmosphere was so thick with fear that it was suffocating. Women were crying and men were barely holding their seams together. I was so terrified that I couldn't move a single muscle. My gaze was glued to the screen.

"Marcus Quartzite," Rosella Diamond's high pitched voice called. Other people had collectively released a sigh of relief; their loved ones were safe but my brother wasn't safe. It had felt like a huge wave had crashed into me and dragged me beneath the undertow. I couldn't breathe. I was drowning in despair.

Marcus, she is talking about Marcus.

Suddenly my ears can hear the words Helena speaks as my mind returns to the present. "Oh my goodness when she ripped out-"

"Shut up!" I snap angrily.

"_His death was glorious."_

The word glorious is repeated over and over again in my mind and the word taunts me, but the pain I feel is much worse. I can't breathe, her words are suffocating.

"Oh, yes his death was a bit vivid and I shouldn't tell you," Helena says before adding breathlessly, "But Rory it was glorious and exciting. The type of moment that keeps you on your toes. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen."

"_Glorious and exciting_."

The rage within me, the rage I can usually bottle in, suddenly bursts. The rage feeds off my grief and grows and grows until it is monstrous inside of me. My nails are daggers piercing my palms and my knuckles can nearly burst out of my skin.

"Athena, are you okay?" Mags asks me softly.

Oh no, I'm not okay. _I want to kill her_.

But I can't, the rational side of myself tries to tell me.

However, it is too late for rationality to tame my rage.

I need to get out. I need to get out now.

"No, no it's not. I need you to take me to my room and I need you to take me now," I reply.

"But Athena-"

"Stop talking to me, I don't want to talk to you and I don't want you to say my name ever again," my seething rage can be heard in my sharp tone. I want to rip out her tongue so she can never say the words glorious and exciting ever again.

Mags quickly stands and tells me, "I can take you to your room now."

Mags understands the urgency. I nod stiffly and stand to follow her but Helena's words stop me in my tracks.

"You didn't like that moment in the 62nd Hunger Games? It was everyone's second favourite moment," Helena says, sounding surprised.

It is like she wants me to strangle her.

"What was glorious about it?" I ask her angrily and I swivel around to face her. Finnick seems to notice the dramatic shift in the room because he moves into a defensive position. Good. At least if I can't hit her, I can hit him.

"Oh, she just ripped out his eyes just like that," Helena responds, she even repeats the motions with a grin on her face. I want to rip the grin off. Her words only make me angrier. My heart pumps rage instead of blood. How would if the same thing happened to someone she loved? I want to know. I need to know.

"Do you have any siblings?" I ask her.

Helena looks confused but she answers my question, "Yes, I have a younger brother."

"Oh, he is your age Rory, my dad remarried and had another child, I wasn't happy at first but," Helena begins to bumble happily and interrupt her by asking, "Do you love your brother?"

I don't give two shits about her life story.

"Yes, of course I do Athena. He is the light of my life. He is very bubbly and very mischief," Helena responds, she is still oblivious to my intent.

"How would you feel if someone ripped out his eyes and split his skull? Would it be glorious and exciting?" I ask angrily. My entire body trembles and I don't know whether the cause is my anger or my sadness.

Helena's smile falls and she shrieks, "Of course not, that would be monstrous and horrible!"

"No, no it wouldn't. It would be glorious and exciting," I hiss angrily at her.

Helena bursts into tears and shrieks, "Don't be so horrid Athena."

"Imagine if that was your brother and someone called his death glorious and exciting. I'm not horrid, you are," I snap at her.

Helena's eyes go wide and she covers her mouth. For a moment I think she is going to apologize, but her next words infuriate me, "But it's different."

"How?" My voice crumbles when I ask her.

"The districts did this to themselves," Helena answers.

I feel sick to the core.

"So the answer is to kill children and watch with a laugh. Thank you for clarifying everything for me," I reply stiffly.

I quickly escape from the room. Mags rushes ahead of me and Rory joins my side. I don't know where she is leading me. I don't really care. I don't see walls, windows or floors; I see Marcus's smiling face in my mind.

I don't know whether I am angry or sad.

Marcus… Do they all find his death glorious?

"Athena, are you okay?" Rory asks me softly.

"Yes," I lie.

"But you are crying," Rory replies.

I reach up to feel my face. My cheeks are soaked. I didn't even realise I started crying.

"I think she was wrong. I think his death was sad and horrible," Rory says softly before adding, "Don't listen to her Athena! She thinks she looks pretty with the white powder on her face."

I suppose he tried to make me laugh, but everything is too painful to laugh. Mags leads us both into a room that has a large bed in it.

"Athena," Mags whispers my name but silence only answers her.

"Was… Was he your friend?" Rory tentatively asks me.

"Just go away," I reply.

I move away from both of them and sink onto the bed. The weight of everything is just too heavy for me to carry.

I hear the door close as Rory and Mags leave my room.

I can release my tears unashamedly. I hate crying in front of others. I hate it! I hate that she managed to make me cry.

I'm fifteen, I'm not twelve anymore. I shouldn't be crying!

I like to relieve my emotions in training but Helena managed to break me.

Her comments managed to break me. She hit a nerve and my tears have just gushed out.

Helena didn't know Marcus. She didn't know him at all but yet she thinks he deserve to die the way he did.

How can she call him kind one second and then say he deserved to die brutally the next second?

Marcus hated fighting and he hated hurting anyone. Marcus used to lead me away from training and take me to the beach.

"Why fight when we can play," he would always say. Dad and Marcus would always clash over that. Dad believed in learning defence and Marcus called the training learning how to murder.

Marcus and I used to run up and down the beach when Marcus decided that we should ditch training. My hair would fly behind me like a cape and his would spring up and down. Our laughter would merge together and overpower the sound of squawking seagulls. We'd just play tag instead of worrying about executing a move right.

"You can't catch me little guppy," he would always say. I'd stop and stamp my feet when he called me guppy. My height had been a sore point.

"I'm not small," I would complain.

Marcus would stop running from me even though a sane person would continue to run away. He would stride towards me and place his hands on my shoulders. I hated having to look up at him because it reminded me of my height, but I would and I would glare.

"Being small doesn't make you less of a person Athie. Awesome people come in all sorts of shapes and sizes," Marcus would gently explain to me.

He didn't deserve to die that way. He was too nice and too kind for the brutality of the Hunger Games.

I try to ignore the ache within my chest but Marcus's death still stings. The wound has never healed and the fat cats always manage to pour salt over the wound. Enobaria Steele's face could give me enough strength to rip this train apart. Every breath she takes and every smile she makes only rakes my wound with salt covered nails. The sting scorches me but also ignites the fiery rage lying dormant inside me.

The bloodthirsty and excited look in her eyes I will never forget. My rage will never be satiated unless I can gouge her pretty pair of dark, brown eyes out of her skull. Until I can hold her eyes in my hands and let a victorious war cry leap out of my mouth.

Glorious?

Exciting?

He deserved it because he was born into a district?

I can't believe that people can think like that.

Did they all cheer and laugh at his death?

He was a person. He was a child. He was a son. He was a brother.

Being born into a district didn't make him deserve to die the way he did.

How could someone think that way?

* * *

**Rory has been introduced. His character hasn't been thoroughly picked apart yet because Athena has only been able to pick up certain things about him. I purposely did a parallel between Rory and Athena's brother so that she will feel a connection to him. The tension between Helena and Athena is important as well. Helena is Athena's first taste of how a Capitol person thinks. The attitude of the Capitol becomes vividly clear to Athena in this 'chapter'.**

**Please review and share your thoughts**

**Thank you for reading and have a good day.**


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